THE INCONVENIENCES OF FOLLOWING A PRETTY WOMAN THROUGH THE STREETS IN THE EVENING.
Gringoire set out to the at all hazards. He had her, by her goat, take to the Rue de la Coutellerie; he took the Rue de la Coutellerie.
“Why not?” he said to himself.
Gringoire, a practical of the of Paris, had noticed that nothing is more to than a woman without she is going. There was in this of his freewill, in this itself to another fancy, which it not, a mixture of and obedience, something indescribable, and liberty, which pleased Gringoire,—a compound, undecided, and complex, the of all extremes, all propensities, and one by the other. He was of himself to Mahomet’s coffin, in two different by two loadstones, and the and the depths, the and the pavement, and ascent, and nadir.
If Gringoire had in our day, what a middle he would and romanticism!
But he was not to live three hundred years, and ’tis a pity. His is a which is but too to-day.
Moreover, for the purpose of thus passers-by (and female passers-by) in the streets, which Gringoire was of doing, there is no than of where one is going to sleep.
So he walked along, very thoughtfully, the girl, who her and her as she saw the returning home and the taverns—the only shops which had been open that day—closing.
“After all,” he to himself, “she must somewhere; have hearts. Who knows?—”
And in the points of which he after this in his mind, there I know not what ideas.
Meanwhile, from time to time, as he passed the last groups of their doors, he some of their conversation, which the of his hypotheses.
Now it was two old men each other.
“Do you know that it is cold, Master Thibaut Fernicle?” (Gringoire had been aware of this since the of the winter.)
“Yes, indeed, Master Boniface Disome! Are we going to have a winter such as we had three years ago, in ’80, when cost eight the measure?”
“Bah! that’s nothing, Master Thibaut, with the winter of 1407, when it from St. Martin’s Day until Candlemas! and so cold that the pen of the of the every three words, in the Grand Chamber! which the registration of justice.”
Further on there were two female neighbors at their windows, candles, which the to sputter.
“Has your husband told you about the mishap, Mademoiselle la Boudraque?”
“No. What is it, Mademoiselle Turquant?”
“The of M. Gilles Godin, the at the Châtelet, took at the Flemings and their procession, and Master Philippe Avrillot, monk of the Célestins.”
“Really?”
“Actually.”
“A horse! ’tis too much! If it had been a horse, well and good!”
And the were closed. But Gringoire had the of his ideas, nevertheless.
Fortunately, he it again, and he it together without difficulty, thanks to the gypsy, thanks to Djali, who still walked in of him; two fine, delicate, and creatures, feet, forms, and manners he was in admiring, almost them in his contemplation; them to be girls, from their and good friendship; them as goats,—so as the lightness, agility, and of their walk were concerned.
But the were and more every moment. The had long ago, and it was only at now that they a passer-by in the street, or a light in the windows. Gringoire had involved, in his of the gypsy, in that of alleys, squares, and closed which the of the Saints-Innocents, and which a of by a cat. “Here are which but little logic!” said Gringoire, in the thousands of which returned upon themselves incessantly, but where the girl a road which familiar to her, without and with a step which more rapid. As for him, he would have been of his had he not espied, in passing, at the turn of a street, the of the of the fish markets, the open-work of which its black, upon a window which was still in the Rue Verdelet.
The girl’s attention had been to him for the last moments; she had her him with uneasiness; she had once come to a standstill, and taking of a of light which from a half-open to survey him intently, from to foot, then, having this glance, Gringoire had her make that little which he had already noticed, after which she passed on.
This little had Gringoire with food for thought. There was and in that grimace. So he his head, to count the paving-stones, and to the girl at a little distance, when, at the turn of a street, which had him to of her, he her a cry.
He his steps.
The was full of shadows. Nevertheless, a of in oil, which in a at the of the Holy Virgin at the corner, permitted Gringoire to make out the in the arms of two men, who were to her cries. The little goat, in great alarm, his and bleated.
“Help! of the watch!” Gringoire, and bravely. One of the men who the girl him. It was the of Quasimodo.
Gringoire did not take to flight, but neither did he another step.
Quasimodo came up to him, him four away on the with a turn of the hand, and into the gloom, the girl across one arm like a scarf. His him, and the ran after them all, plaintively.
“Murder! murder!” the gypsy.
“Halt, rascals, and me that wench!” in a voice of thunder, a who appeared from a square.
It was a captain of the king’s archers, from to foot, with his in his hand.
He the from the arms of the Quasimodo, her across his saddle, and at the moment when the terrible hunchback, from his surprise, upon him to his prey, fifteen or sixteen archers, who their captain closely, their appearance, with their two-edged in their fists. It was a of the king’s police, which was making the rounds, by order of Messire Robert d’Estouteville, of the of Paris.
Quasimodo was surrounded, seized, garroted; he roared, he at the mouth, he bit; and had it been daylight, there is no that his alone, more by wrath, would have put the entire to flight. But by night he was of his most weapon, his ugliness.
His had the struggle.
The herself upon the officer’s saddle, hands upon the man’s shoulders, and at him for seconds, as though with his good looks and with the which he had just her. Then first, she said to him, making her sweet voice still than usual,—
“What is your name, le gendarme?”
“Captain Phœbus de Châteaupers, at your service, my beauty!” the officer, himself up.
“Thanks,” said she.
And while Captain Phœbus was up his in Burgundian fashion, she from the horse, like an to earth, and fled.
A of would have less quickly.
“Nombrill of the Pope!” said the captain, Quasimodo’s to be tighter, “I should have to keep the wench.”
“What would you have, captain?” said one gendarme. “The has fled, and the remains.”
